Moments
by willshakespeare-immortalbard
Summary: As he walked down the street, tears pouring down his face, he heard the sound of someone crying. [Pre-RENT, Mark and Roger centric. Rated T for descriptive violence, vivid imagery, and possible triggers. Friendship only. Please read/review!]
1. Chapter 1

**A/N—Disclaimer: I don't own RENT. **

** Summary: Mark and Roger centric. Pre-RENT, but it may continue on into the events of RENT. **

**Notes: This is rated T for descriptive violence, vivid imagery, and possible triggers. Please be warned. :) Thanks! Also, it's friendship only.**

**Please read/review!**

**Moments**

The night April killed herself was the longest, loneliest night that the battered loft had witnessed in all the years that it had housed the poor and destitute, the lonely and quiet, the deprived and gasping.

Roger grabbed his guitar and spun about the room once, scanning it for paper and pen, which he grabbed from the table and shoved into the open hole of his guitar. The strings rang discordantly, rubbing at his heart uncomfortably. The screenplay that Mark had set aside before going to make a cup of tea—now spilled across the kitchen floor soaking the floor, the trash, and the shattered porcelain that seemed so symbolic of their life—went careening through the air, spiral upon spiral of carefully typed up paper, off-screens and on-screens, voiceovers and dialogue, camera pans and zooms all scattered across the page like the pages were upon the floor. The only sign that Mark gave of his dissent to Roger's treatment of the screenplay was a wince unaccompanied by any sound. His face had an odd expression that was not grief, which was enough to incite Roger's rage.

"It was crap anyway," he spat at the filmmaker, and then actually directed a spit at the papers. He choked on grief halfway through and missed the screenplay, but he didn't have the heart to try again. Instead he spun once more, twanging the strings, even though it hurt his head, just to see Mark wince again out of his peripheral vision. There was more pain on Mark's face for the noise than there was for April.

He stormed out.

* * *

The room went alternately cold and hot, his sweater not heavy enough one moment and too heavy the next, itchy and weighty and oppressive. His eyes got tight behind his glasses, and pain throbbed in his head and ears. The ends of his toes and fingertips went cold and numb, spreading up through his limbs. It reached his middle, and he collapsed onto the couch, massaging his knuckles.

Beneath Mark's feet his screenplay rustled. The words crumpled in on themselves, and a sorrowful death scene popped out, with the hero clutching the heroine, waling to a blood-red sky. He recoiled from his own work.

April…

* * *

_There had been nothing wrong with April, save for the fact that she had moved into their flat and insisted that Mark ought to move out. He'd let it slide, and hadn't said a word to Roger about the blistering fights they'd have when he was gone, both of them standing on opposite sides of the room, April screaming every horrible word in her vocabulary, Mark waiting until she'd stop for breath to slip in a particularly biting phrase. By the end he was always screaming too. April hated him. He disliked her, but took relief in the reprieve from his numb façade that April gave him. She never told Roger that they fought; for fear that he might lose his temper and kick her out. Mark never told because he couldn't bring himself to admit to Roger that his girlfriend wouldn't be happy until his roommate was gone._

_ Roger adored April. When he found her, that first night after his show, he came home and sang the praises of the beautiful girl who saw in him the glorious talent Roger was always certain he possessed. He loved her, he said, and when Mark asked if it was possible for him to love her after only knowing her for a few hours, Roger glared at him, then went and got high. When he brought her home a few days later, she smiled at Mark for about half a second before her eyes narrowed and she noticed the wide variety of stuff in the room—guitar mingling with camera, leather jackets and random scarves all tossed together in the dirty hamper even though they were relatively clean and they didn't have the money to do any washing. _

_ "Cool stuff, Roger," she said, nodding her head. "Didn't take you for a scarf kind of man, but whatever."_

_ "That's Mark's stuff," Roger explained, kicking aside a film canister that Mark had used and discarded, and which they kept to kick around when they got mad (normally when they tripped on it and blamed each other for having the bright idea of keeping it around anyway.) _

_ Her eyes narrowed further, and it was clear to Mark that she had always known to whom the scarves, the camera, the film canisters, and all things non-Roger belonged. She'd only been scoping out her home, and she'd figured out that she was sharing. _

_ But she remained nonchalant. "How much stuff you gotta bring, Mark?" she joked, smiling again and patting his arm. "Do you __**like **__moving in and out every day?"_

_ "April, Mark lives here. Uhhhh…that room." It took Roger a few minutes to locate the door, which was a large reason why Mark had chosen it. If Roger couldn't find his room, then he couldn't mess with the stuff in it. "And he doesn't like visitors, so don't go in there. And he likes there to be a clean path to the bathroom in the morning, and he likes the bathroom to be clean. So don't make it dirty without cleaning it up. OH! And whatever you do, don't touch the camera, his scarves, his screenplays, his shoes, his bike, his—"_

"_I don't care what you touch," Mark intervened. "I really don't. It's only when Roger touches it that I mind."_

_April smiled that one last time, and then the scowl on her face when she looked at Mark became permanent. _

* * *

Roger banged on the strings in a manner that he never would have used if he had been sober, sane, and not high. But he was drunk on the cheap beer that Mark had bought, tasted, and shoved on the roof as a free gift for whoever wanted beer bad enough to drink beer that crappy. He was insane with anger and grief and fear. He was high on the same old junk that April had introduced him too, a few days after she moved into the loft.

"_You're so stressed…it really does help, you know." _

_He gave in without fighting. The gigs were becoming too much, what with playing several each night to keep up with his share of the rent. His voice was hoarse, his throat was raw, his fingers were blistered, and his hands were so cramped that he hadn't been able to open his door that morning and had been forced to hammer on the door and scream (with his already ruined voice) for twenty minutes until Mark came in from early morning filming, opened the door, and extorted an excuse from April, who, obviously on a high, managed to slur that she "had been taking a nap because Mark's editing had kept her up."_

"_Yeah, no more of that, by the way," Roger said. "It's irritating."_

"_It never bothered you before." Mark was half out of it as he started setting up his stuff in the middle of the floor. April had taken it down, but he hadn't said anything, so Roger assumed he didn't mind. _

"_It bothers April, though."_

"_Oh." A pause. "Alright…I'll do it in my room."_

"_Why don't you just leave?" She came in, shivering with the cold and the withdrawal from a fix that had fallen through. "Educated boy like yourself…you could get so much better…and get out of our hair."_

_Mark ignored her._

_Not long after Roger's gigs increased, and April stayed at the loft more, she began her campaign to convince Mark to leave. Her tactic was simple—tell Mark he ought to go, and hope that he would feel guilt ridden enough to do so._

* * *

His throat started to burn. It was amazing that he could talk anymore, what with all the damage he had done his voice attempting to keep from crying after all of their fights. Mark swallowed, fighting back the mix of bile and tears.

"_I mean—"_

_The door opened, and Roger entered. _

"If you got that on film I'll break your camera."

Mark looked up at Roger. He shook his head, swallowing again.

"Good. All you ever do is catch stuff on that stupid camera. It drove April crazy."

"A—" Mark bit back the angry retort (_A lot of stuff drove April crazy. I drove April crazy._)

Roger buried his head in his hands. He was shaking. "I need a fix," he whispered.

Mark shook his head, like he always did. "No you don't. You _want _one."

"You didn't let me finish!" Roger snapped at him.

Mark recoiled. "Fine. Finish."

"I said I need a fix…but I'm not having one."

"You're not?"

"No. These drugs…if I hadn't been so addicted, then…then…then there's a fifty percent chance I could have avoided getting _this_. AIDS."

Roger's shaking increased, and his voice broke. "AIDS…AIDS, Mark. April had AIDs. _I have AIDS_."

Mark bit back his own tears and put a hand on Roger's arm. "If you take your medicine you'll be fine."

Roger glared at him. "I didn't ask for your opinion! You're always butting in, telling us what to do. No wonder you drove April up the wall."

Mark looked at the ground. "Let's not talk about April, Roger. Sh—she's gone, and we can't bring her back."

Roger choked. "I _know_ she's gone. Why do you think we're sitting here trying to face the fact that she went and killed herself?"

"Roger, I'm not trying to hurt you, and I never tried to hurt her! Why are you so mad at me?"

"Are you sad for her death, Mark? The TRUTH! Does the fact that she's gone upset you? Or are you just upset that your little life's all messed up now, what with me having AIDS and everything?"

"I—Roger—"

"You didn't like her."

Mark turned around and grabbed his camera. He knew he was acting like Roger just had, getting angry, running away, but he had to go. He had to get out.

"Where are you going?"

"Out." He dashed out the door. Just a few minutes. If he could stay on the roof for just a few minutes then Roger would leave. He'd run and break his resolution about getting off the drug. He'd go get a fix and sit in the bar, high. And then Mark could go back and get his stuff.

He didn't make it that far.

The moment that the door to the roof closed behind him he sank to his knees and burst into tears.

Huge, choking tears that shook his so hard that he became physically sick. He vomited on the ground, again and again, crying and moaning and whimpering, clutching his stomach and rocking back and forth.

He cried like he had never cried before, and like he hoped desperately that he would never cry again.

* * *

The loft was oppressive. It made Roger feel nauseous, and he staggered to the door and stumbled down the stairs. His feet slammed against the sidewalk, sending jarring pain up and down his legs. It didn't match the pain in his chest.

Dying. He was dying.

As he walked down the street, tears pouring down his face, he heard the sound of someone crying.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N—Disclaimer: I don't own RENT. **

** Thank you all so much for your beautiful reviews! This is my first RENT fanfic, so to know that people are enjoying it really means a lot. I must have them fairly in character. This chapter is dedicated to you.**

**WARNING (please read): This is where my T rating starts to come in. I'm a descriptive writer, and while this may not qualify as T exactly, I like to rate a little higher for sensitive readers. I don't know anything about withdrawal, but my description is rather vivid. So please be warned. If you all feel that this really doesn't qualify as a T piece, please let me know and I'll change it, but I always like to wait till I get into the good stuff so I know I'm not shocking anyone. Thank you!**

**Please read/review!**

* * *

By the time Roger stumbled into the loft, the only reason he wasn't high was because the dealer hadn't shown up, hadn't answered his frantic call—made only an hour after he'd sworn he wouldn't touch the drugs again.

* * *

"_Pick up…pick up…" His foot tapped against the ground, the tremors already beginning in his ankles, making them roll painfully as he leaned against the phone booth. "PICK UP!" _

_The tone rang a little longer, and then he heard the phone click as his time ran out. _

* * *

"I need a fix…"

Mark didn't answer. The filmmaker was curled up the couch, knees pressed against his chest, staring blankly at the floor, at the still scattered screenplay.

"I need a fix—and pick this crap up!" Roger kicked at the papers as he staggered on his now trembling legs and tried to maneuver himself toward the couch.

Mark still didn't answer.

"You only ever talk when people want you to shut up," Roger muttered venomously, hoping that Mark heard him. He shoved Mark's camera aside and let it clatter to the floor, but still Mark remained motionless.

"Get me a fix." Roger was shaking. "It's in the bedroom…under the pillow…"

"You said you're going clean."

"Yeah, and I will…after I stop feeling like I'm gonna puke my guts up. So right after this fix…right after this one."

"No." Mark turned to him. His blue eyes weren't the same color they normally were, and his face was unnaturally flushed, as if he'd scrubbed at it. Roger felt like there were signs and symbols on Mark's face that he ought to know, but couldn't recognize. Maybe once he wasn't so miserable…

"No. You said that when April made you start. You said it was only the stress…"

* * *

"_What are you DOING?" Mark's voice was horrified, and he sank onto the chair by the phone, his hand clutching the edge of the table. "Are you high?"_

_Roger was too busy soaking up the pleasure to bother answering. _

"_I can't—" Mark choked on whatever he was going to say. "You—"_

"_I'm just stressed," Roger finally managed. He hated having to talk, but the hysteria creeping into Mark's voice was driving him up the wall, giving him the beginnings of a pounding headache. He felt around for the needle, remembering how April often gave herself multiple injections on particularly stressful nights. "Ok? I won't do it again."_

_But Mark was already on the phone, and as Roger turned away to let the drug erase the pain in his forehead and the throbbing in his temples, he heard Mark give a garbled explanation into the mouth of the phone, to whoever got to have Mark be their problem for the evening. _

* * *

"Just. Go. Get. Me. A. Fix. You know where it is, and don't tell me you're too lazy to go get it."

"I'm not too lazy," Mark snapped. "But I'm not getting it for you. You said you were done."

Roger glared at him. "Be that way, then."

Two hours later "Be that way, then" had become an endless line of pitiful pleas—_"Please just get me a fix…please…"_—then a schpiel of hatred—_"Heartless, rotten…oughta make you pay…stupid Brown dropout"_—and finally one weak attempt to make it to the stash under the pillow. Roger had collapsed, too weak to make it, and Mark had taken the advantage to close the door. He didn't touch the drugs. Something about them scared him.

* * *

_The circles Mark had hung out with a Brown hadn't used drugs. They'd all been intent on being respectable lawyers. They couldn't afford to put a drug mark on their records. Mark had never seen the little packets of powder until April had brought her first stash in and dropped them on the table while she fiddled in her purse for lipstick that was too dark a red to be attractive and another helping of chewing gum. _

"_What's with you?" she'd asked irately, seeing the confusion, horror, and disgust on Mark's face. "Oh, wait. You're a good boy. Never seen drugs. Try one." She tossed a packet at him and smiled. _

"_No thank you." He'd wanted to throw up. _

"_Way to accept generosity, sweetheart. When a junkie offers you a pack of hard bought drugs, you generally accept."_

"_No thank you." He __**had**__ thrown up. After she'd traipsed out into the hallway to see if Roger was back yet._

_He'd recoiled from the packets April had put on the table. He'd run from the loft when April brought out the needle. When Roger had started he'd actually moved out for a few days until he realized that anywhere he was going to go was going to be a million times worse than the loft. So he came back and began filming in even more earnest, keeping the camera available so that he could split the moment one of the needles appeared, or whenever they started getting to close to saying they needed another fix. _

* * *

"Roger…do…do you want to get off the floor?" He sounded so young, even to his own years.

"Where will you take me?" the rocker muttered, rocking back and forth with his hands around his head.

"To my room. You can lie down on the bed."

"My room. I want to go to my room."

"Forget it." Mark knew why Roger wanted to be in his room. He wanted the drugs that he knew Mark was too afraid to touch. He knew that Mark wouldn't move them until he had no other choice.

"I'm not sleeping in your bed."

"It's the bed or the couch, and I'll take whichever one you don't want." Mark began to haul Roger up, even though the man was too big for him, and he could feel Roger's weight triggering the nausea that he'd been fighting back for the past few hours.

Roger didn't answer. He hung limp in Mark's arms.

"Roger…please work with me."

Roger only became heavier.

"You stink," Mark spat at him as he dragged him into the room. "You know that, right?"

He dropped Roger on the bed and left the room, slamming the door behind him, giving in to his moment of spite. Hopefully it would give Roger a terribly painful headache.

* * *

"_Where'd you get to?" The young man looked at Roger balefully and set up his camera equipment. _

"_Collins said you'd run off," Roger tried again. He was being nice. _

"_Don't talk to me when you're on drugs, please." Mark's voice was timid. It filled Roger with disgust, and his next words were acidic._

"_If you're going to lay down personal rules and boundaries, do so in a tone that commands respect. You sound like you belong in a tower waiting to rescued from a dragon. Don't be a princess."_

"_Don't talk to me when you're on drugs." The anger in Mark's tone was more evident, but still the filmmaker's voice was too soft, too gentle. "Please."_

_The last word set Roger off, and he rocketed to his feet—_

* * *

"GIVE IT TO ME!" The world was a dim haze. The colors weren't saturated enough, and the lack of color and buzzing was making Roger feel faint. He walked across the room—one, two, three—with the heavy tread of a drunkard, reeling into the furniture, knocking things over. Paper crumpled beneath his feet and he lost his balance, falling forward. Mark stumbled away from him.

"GIVE IT TO ME!" Roger roared, reaching out a hand that was shaking with withdrawal and the effort of not strangling Mark. "GIVE IT TO ME!"

"NO!" Mark's voice was high and shrill—frightened and angry—as he pushed himself away from Roger and slipped behind the couch, putting it between himself and Roger. The packets were crushed in his hands, his nails biting into the plastic, and Roger could see the small, white grains beginning to drizzle onto the ground. "NO! I'll take it myself before I let you have anymore!" Panic was in Mark's blue eyes, and he clenched his fist tighter as he edged toward the fire escape.

"Give them to me now." Roger lowered his voice.

Mark shook his head.

Roger lunged.

Mark tore the packets open as he stumbled back, and Roger swore at him—all the filthy words he could think of—as he slammed into the railing, nearly falling, letting the plastic packets fall to the street below, where they'd be empty by the time they landed.

Roger swung.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N—Disclaimer: I don't own RENT. **

** Thanks again to everybody for their reviews! :D**

* * *

Mark wasn't fast enough to dodge the blow, but he managed to get his glasses off his face before Roger's fist connected. His glasses slipped from his hands, nearly falling off the edge of the fire escape as Mark staggered backward, ramming into the railing.

"You!" Roger's voice was full of anger and hatred, and his eyes were blazing. Never before had Mark seen him so enraged. He grabbed Mark and slammed him once more against the railing. Mark could feel the cold, grilled metal through his shirt, and he could feel the patterned bruises forming as Roger continued to beat him there like a dirty dishrag.

"Roger, _stop it_!" he snapped as he tried to wriggle free from Roger's grip. He had to get them away from the fire escape. Roger was going to pitch him off the edge otherwise. Also, even in their neighborhood people beating their roommates wasn't an occurrence that happened often enough to make the people immune to it. "Cut it out!"

"_You selfish little twit!_" Roger snarled. Mark ignored the remark and pushed against Roger's chest with all his strength, managing to make the rocker stumble back away from the outdoors. The window ledge (which both of them had jumped in their earlier fight) proved a difficulty, especially as Roger was still hammering him with blows and screaming insults and obscenities.

* * *

"_You're just a yuppie who thought it would be cool to hang out with the big boys!" April was on a roll. He'd walked in on her getting high, and hadn't been able to hide the disgust on his face. Roger would have ignored it, maybe flipped him the finger before returning to his drugs, but April didn't believe in lying down and taking someone else's criticism. She'd hopped to her feet and thrown the needle at him. "A selfish little twit who thinks the world revolves around you!"_

* * *

Roger had never been there to witness April's cruel words and bitter shouting fits. Yet he was able to use the same words she had.

Mark steered Roger into the living room and tried to push him onto the couch. Roger was too big for Mark, every thrashing movement made by the rocker like fighting a bear. But Mark finally succeeded in shoving him into a seat.

"Roger, calm down. It—it's for your own good."

"You don't have my good in mind! You have your own selfish reputation! You don't want your film to be ruined!"

"Don't be stupid! If I really wanted my film to be good I'd tape you being a total baby about this and use it in a no-drugs documentary!" The words were a low blow, but they didn't shut Roger up, so they can't have hurt that much. And they felt good. They were a relief to Mark's sore heart, even if the fact that he had screamed them made his throat raw, and the punch that Roger delivered in answer to his petty response made his head throb and his vision begin to go dim.

* * *

_He filmed April once, when she was too high to notice his existence. He'd considered turning it in as a news story, or something along those lines. Surely if people saw it, they'd realize what drugs did. They'd be as disgusted as he was by the way April was completely dead to the world except for when she reached for the needle for another injection. _

_She reached for the needle then, and saw him._

_He never filmed her again. _

* * *

"Sit down!" Roger surged up, and they had a spat over whether or not Roger would sit down on the couch. Mark tried everything. But any grip he got on Roger's arms ended up in Roger thrashing so much that his wrists twisted to the point of nearly breaking. So he had to let go. Finally he summoned up a last bit of strength and sat on Roger, pinning him to the couch as well as he could. He was just heavy enough that Roger was uncomfortable and unable to unseat him well enough to get away.

Mark's parents had wanted him to go into law. He had rebelled and taken a major in English before giving up college completely. But he remembered enough to see the ironic symbolism. His situation—sitting atop a struggling junkie—was the closest thing to a symbol for his careening life that he would ever find.

* * *

Roger woke up sore. His limbs were shaking uncontrollably, and his stomach was twisting and churning, bile rising in his throat and making his esophagus burn. His entire body felt bruised and weak.

He needed a hit.

"Forget it."

He hadn't heard himself speak, but he obviously had, because Mark was glaring at him from the couch. The filmmaker's hair was tousled, his glasses so awry that they _had _to be giving him a headache—they were giving Roger one just looking at them—and his face was bruised purple and green. His clothes were rumpled, and his hands were shaking as much as Roger's were. The coffee cup he was holding clattered loudly, even though he was holding it in both hands, and when he put it to his mouth Roger could hear his teeth chattering against the rim.

"Forget having a hit. You're going clean."

Never had Roger regretted a decision so much. _Clean_…the word made him nauseas.

"I can't go clean!" he snapped.

"You can."

"No, I can't! Mark, _I need it!_"

Mark was on his feet suddenly, staring down at Roger. His blue eyes were vibrant, popping out from the purple/green bruises spattered across his face. "No, you don't! You _never _needed it, not for years! You were in a band for years, that…that _crap_ all around you, and you _never _used it! You _never _needed it! And then April came, and suddenly you couldn't live without it."

Roger couldn't fight back. He just repeated what he'd already said.

"I need it."

Mark shook his head firmly.

"No. You don't need it. And as long as I live under this roof and have a breath in my body, you're not having it."


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N—I don't own **_**RENT**_**. It belongs to Jonathon Larson. **

**Notes: This is FRIENDSHIP ONLY! **

**This is dedicated to all of my wonderful reviewers and followers, especially Gazelle, who's been asking for an update. Here you go!**

* * *

Mark was out the door the moment that Roger fell asleep. If the few instances when April had been deprived of her drugs was anything to go by, he had about forty minutes before Roger woke up. And if Mark didn't get this set up before Roger woke, it was never happening.

Apparently the beating on the patio hadn't gone unnoticed last night, as the "janitor" caught him while he was locking the door.

The man had named himself the janitor of the building as a sort of justification for taking the room at the very bottom of the stairs. It had been abandoned for nearly a year, and the man had brought no furniture. No one cared that he had taken it—in fact, the inhabitants of the place often took his few belongings into their own apartments when Benny Coffin came to visit and make sure that no one was mooching off the empty rooms without paying their rent. But the man had insisted.

"Heard a lot of noise last night," he observed as he mopped, splashing the filthy water everywhere. Obviously he had only dragged his stuff up when the sounds of Mark preparing to go out began to spread through the pipes.

Mark nodded, keeping his face directed at the ground in an attempt to hide the green and purple bruises on his face. "Just a little."

"A fight?"

"No."

"Lots of yelling."

Mark forced a laugh. "I knocked over the guitar." It was a terrible excuse, but he wasn't going to talk about the beating. So long as he didn't draw attention to it, and so long as it didn't happen again, he could get Roger through withdrawal without any outside trouble.

The "janitor" nodded and finished up his mopping, and Mark hurried down the stairs, trying to do the math in his head about how much time he'd wasted trying to get away from the man. Every second counted, as he didn't know for certain that Roger was going to stay asleep for the entire forty minutes.

But getting out of the building after there was any type of excitement whatsoever was absolutely impossible. Heads poked out of doorways as long-time residents recognized his footsteps, and question after question was asked. He dodged them all and told them he'd knocked over Roger's beloved guitar. He kept his scarf high on his face to keep the bruises out of sight.

On the last flight of stairs, he met the person he'd been most afraid of.

"How are you doing?" It was the girl who lived in the flat across from them. She was a very pretty girl, with dark brown hair and eyes. She looked to be about sixteen. She certainly dressed like it. But she was nice, and she was quiet, which in a rundown apartment building like the one on Avenue B was something that many, many people were unlucky enough not to have. He'd never complained about her, and she'd never complained about them, even when he and April had used to scream at each other at the top of their lungs.

It wasn't any use telling her that he'd dropped Roger's guitar and that the bruises were because the head of the instrument had given him a beating. The girl—Mimi?—worked somewhere down the street, though Mark didn't know exactly where, and she came home late. He'd seen her out of the corner of his eye while he'd been dodging Roger's blows out on the balcony, and he knew that she'd seen.

He shrugged. "It was…it was just an argument."

"Do you want ice?"

"No, no. I had some earlier, and it just made it sorer. Too cold." He smiled and readjusted his scarf.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah. I've got to run and get some footage," he said, hefting his camera as he brushed by her and ran down the stairs. As he went down, he heard the _tap tap _of her heels going up.

He waited until he was out of the Avenue B area before running. It was a bad idea to run in that part of town. Even if you were the victim of a crime, the police liked to arrest anyone who ran. It was better than waiting to ask questions and see who was the criminal and who wasn't. It was why Mark wanted a bike. Walking in this area was frightening. It took too long. He desperately wanted a bike so that he could get in and out of this place faster, and so that he could maneuver the busy Manhattan streets without needing a car. He didn't want a car.

* * *

_"What's wrong with a car?" Roger asked as he played Musetta's Waltz on his guitar. _

_ "We don't need a car, Roger. They're expensive. You never go out, and I'm actually pretty certain that my license is expired. And…and you can't run away on a bike."_

_ "Are you afraid that someone's going to run away?"_

_ "I don't know. People do that stuff. People leave if they get a chance." _

* * *

He hit the border between downtown and Avenue B, and started running. He needed to get to the hospital quickly. He knew that when Roger found out, he would be furious. But April's note wasn't enough. Though Mark didn't want to know Roger's death sentence, he also knew that if Roger had a death sentence, he was going to fight it. But to fight it, he would need medicine—AZTS were what Collins took—and for that he needed a prescription from the doctor.

The hospital loomed in front of him. Mark slowed, sucking in several large breaths. He needed to look healthy. He'd been to this hospital several times. It was where the poorer crowd went, and the people there tended to meddle. If someone saw him and thought he was ill, chances were that they'd insist he get checked out for illnesses such a pneumonia and asthma.

Once he had his breath back and he'd gotten his sudden jitters under control, he went inside and approached the nurse.

"Excuse me…I'd like to set up an appointment for AIDS testing."


End file.
